


Sensate

by ribbonelle



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Dirty Talk, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Masturbation, Sticky Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-12
Updated: 2014-11-12
Packaged: 2018-02-25 02:28:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2605247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ribbonelle/pseuds/ribbonelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With Tailgate, it was as if he was experiencing sensory overload.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sensate

**Author's Note:**

> i just realized that ive written a lot of drabbles about these grandpas but never really...porn. so! porn. this was cheesy and is a pwp and there's a lot of vague implications probably but still yes enjoy :'>

Sensations were important for Cyclonus. For as long as he had lived, he had focused most on how something felt to him, physically and mentally, and memories were the most vivid to him if he recalled the impressions of said situations. Sights and smells, contact to his plating, sound, the overall essence of an atmosphere. It helped him hone his skills as a warrior, and soothed the ache in his spark for Cybertron, his memories sufficient enough to lessen his longing. He would store the details of a circumstance in his processor to replay them again and again whenever he needed to. He liked how things were.

But with Tailgate, it was as if he was experiencing sensory overload.

Everything was somehow intensified; the pristine, white plating, the minute shifts in Tailgate’s wrist joint, the noises, Primus, _the noises_ —

 “You do know that I’m not gonna break, right?”

Snapping from his reverie, Cyclonus looked up to focus on Tailgate’s faceplates rather than the tempting slopes of parted thighs, and made a noise that was more or less an agreement.

“Then what are you making me wait for?” Tailgate’s voice went a little high, his visor flickering momentarily. It seemed that he had found a cluster of nodes in his valve that was quite pleasurable, and Cyclonus could see the strain in the minibot’s frame as he tried to not excite himself too much. Out of stubbornness, maybe, Tailgate could get so demanding at times.

“You know why,” the larger mech murmured, optics dropping down again to watch slick, white fingers slide into a leaking valve again and again, as lubricant ran down Tailgate’s aft in a tempting display. It was truly a glorious sight. Tailgate, comfortable in his berth, pedes curled as he pleasured himself, the whirring of his smaller engine a constant noise in the room. He was watching Cyclonus intently, his visor bright and intense, and it was difficult for the jetformer to ignore his own rising arousal.

He already had one hand on his panel, having kneaded the metal absently as he watched Tailgate’s valve adapt to small fingers earlier, so it was easy to just slide the plating back, his spike pressurising into his hand. There was relief, and also amusement as Tailgate visibly jerked upon the realization that Cyclonus was self-servicing too.

The minibot huffed out air, his legs spreading impossibly wider, the four fingers in his valve opening him up, “I want it, Cyclonus, I want it in me. Give it to me, come on.”

Cyclonus’ free hand reached up to offer comfort to his partner, gently rubbing over the plating of Tailgate’s thigh, “We need to wait, Tailgate, you know that very well.”

“But I don’t want to. It’s right _there_ ,” Tailgate even lifted his head to make his point, catching sight of Cyclonus’ fingers encircled around a purple spike, “And I’m right here. Ready and willing. We don’t _have_ to wait.”

“Yes, we do,” said the larger mech patiently, shifting on his knees slightly so he could roll his hips into his hand better, “How many days of stretching did I say should at least be done?”

Tailgate’s other hand was gripping and running over his own frame, clearly bothered by Cyclonus’ movements, “Three. Which is stupid, and unnecessary, because I am so ready right now, look at me, I’m really stretched!”

Pulling the fingers out, fluids threading in between his digits, Tailgate showed Cyclonus what he meant, the channel of his valve gaping wide, the walls clenching from the sudden loss of girth inside. He lifted his aft and dropped again, almost writhing on the berth, “Cyclonus. Please.”

It would be so easy to give in, to just surrender to the minibot’s whims, and his own urgent desire. But it wouldn’t do to contradict his resolve. Not to mention that Tailgate didn’t need any more spoiling, he was catered to enough by the entire crew of the Lost Light.

Tailgate really did make a tempting offer, nevertheless.

Cyclonus shook his head, letting go of himself to scoot closer to his lover, “No. Tomorrow, Tailgate. You’ve waited this long already.”

“You’re so mean,” the words burst out of the smaller mech like he’d been keeping it in a while, frustration evident in his tone, “You’re so cruel sometimes. Fine. Don’t put it in. But I don’t think I can overload with just fingers, Cyclonus, not when I can see _that._ ”

His visor narrowed as he glanced down at Cyclonus’ spike, like it was an enemy. It was difficult for Cyclonus not to chuckle a little. Before Tailgate could vocalize his annoyance at that particular reaction, Cyclonus shifted forward, looming over the minibot. The way he was positioning himself, it was almost as if…

“C-Cyclonus?” Tailgate floundered, surprised by Cyclonus’ actions, how the jetformer had settled in between his legs. The warrior simply placed both his hands over Tailgate’s knee joints, pulling the bent legs closer together.

He tilted his hips forward, and his spike slid perfectly in between Tailgate’s thighs, its underside brushing lightly over the folds of Tailgate’s valve.

“…Oh.”

Cyclonus leaned down, pressing his rough lips onto Tailgate’s facemask, languidly kissing his partner. Tailgate reciprocated the way he always did, tilting his head this way and that, his clean hand lifting to let the back of his fingers trail over Cyclonus’ shoulder, his helm. His field was pulsing adoration and contentment now, instead of the earlier irritation, and Cyclonus smiled against the smooth, white plating.

“Keep your legs together. Alright?”

Tailgate nodded, obeying, his hand dropping from Cyclonus’ face to grip at his own knees, just in case his control wasn’t enough. Cyclonus moved once again, his clawed hands resting on either side of Tailgate’s head, knees digging into the berth as he angled himself better.

An experimental thrust, and the lips of Tailgate’s valve parted, Cyclonus’ spike sliding over his opening, lubricant smearing everywhere.

“Primus—” the minibot shuddered, his feet curling, fingers gripping tighter at his own plating, “Oh. Y-you’re not helping.”

Cyclonus hummed, pleased that he could roll his hips easily, Tailgate’s earlier ministrations causing there to be almost no resistance at all, “Hm?”

Tailgate’s visor went offline, his backstrut arching in pleasure; his chest pushed forward, “I want it in me now more than ever.”

“That will happen. Sooner than you think,” the larger mech spoke softly, comforting, “Release your spike. And look at me.”

The dark visor flickered blue soon enough, and Tailgate sounded a little wary, even as his spike housing spiralled open, and his appendage pressurised out into the open, “Are you going to ride me? Thought you said we’d only do that again after you frag me. I don’t blame you though, you really liked it. Never thought I’d see you totally losing yourself like that.”

“No I’m not going to, and don’t get smug,” Cyclonus warned, making a face at the proud glow of Tailgate’s visor. He ground his hips, his spike pressing hard against Tailgate’s smaller length, making the minibot choke on a reply. That was satisfying.

“Tomorrow night,” he purred, intentionally dropping his voice, optics steady on Tailgate’s own, “It’ll be just like this. Only you’d be holding your legs apart, and I’d be pushing into you, bit by bit.” Tailgate’s visor went blinding bright at his words, his frame shaking a little at the ever building pleasure from Cyclonus’ fucking against him.

“You’d look delectable, all pretty with my spike inside you. I’m going to watch you like that for a while, and not move. Just take in the sight of you squirming, impaled. I want to watch you trying to move yourself.”

“And when it’s time, when you have just adapted to the feeling, I’m going to take you so hard you’d be feeling me inside of you for days. You’d love that, won’t you?”

Tailgate’s visor was dim, his head lolled back to rest against his back kibble, his ventilations reduced to harsh panting. He tried to nod, before dismissing the effort and chose to moan instead, the cables in his shoulders stretched taut, “Y-yes, ah—Cyclonus, I gotta, I’m gonna let go.” And he did, pulling his hands away from his knees to reach up and dig fingers in Cyclonus’ shoulder vents instead. The warrior took over easily, shifting his stance so he could hold Tailgate’s legs together with a hand, supporting his weight with the other, thrusting away.

The sigh his minibot let out was wonderful, his frame twisting in pleasure, his hips jerking up for more friction. Cyclonus himself was snapping his hips harder, pushing downwards, low, gruff noises escaping him as he got caught up in their interfacing.

“Come inside me,” Tailgate gasped soon enough, his voice crackling with static as he neared overload, “Fill me up, come on, please please, do it _inside_ —“

Tailgate’s frame shuddered violently, his visor blacking out in his climax, the fingers in Cyclonus’ vents curling hard enough to dent the metal. Cyclonus fucked him through it, relishing in how Tailgate’s valve was clenching, trying to gain a purchase on his spike. Having built himself up earlier, in addition to Tailgate’s sensuous moaning, it didn’t take Cyclonus long to overload with a loud groan, spilling transfluid over the blue plating of the minibot’s abdomen.

He let go of Tailgate’s legs then, and it took a while before Tailgate stretched them, still shaking from the intense sensations. His pedes uncurled slowly, and he extended his legs, before he brought his them together again in exasperation.

“You didn’t come inside, Primus…” his legs crossed, as he tried to assuage the feeling in his valve, “I’m so empty. That was good, but I honestly want something inside, Cyclonus, how long are you going to do this to me?”

“Not much longer,” huffed Cyclonus, his swirling spark slowly settling. His spike retracted, and he set his knees on the berth, dipping down to kiss at Tailgate’s faceplates once more, “Tomorrrow night, remember? Patience is virtue, Tailgate.”

The minibot’s visor onlined, and satisfaction were ripples in his field, laced with irritation, “Yeah, yeah. And you’re just mean. The dirty talk was new though,” he giggled, tilting his head up for his partner, “I liked it. It was different.”

Cyclonus nipped at Tailgate’s neck cabling, before lifting himself off of the slighter frame to lay down on his back beside the minibot, careful of his wings, “It felt different. It was…interesting, at least.”

“Of course it is,” Tailgate nodded, and looked down at himself, “I’m a mess.”

“You are.”

“You don’t wanna…lick this off?”

Cyclonus tilted his head towards Tailgate with one of his optic ridges raised, and Tailgate’s laughter was like a peal of bells. He didn’t have time to protest when Tailgate hauled himself up, lifting a leg to straddle Cyclonus’ frame. He pushed his helm against Cyclonus’ face, and it was really difficult for the jetformer to not respond with kisses, not when Tailgate was being absurdly affectionate.

Tailgate sat up soon enough with a sigh, “I guess I should go to the washracks. Oh, oops! You’ve gotten dirty too, aw. We should go together, then.” He gestured to the smears he had caused on Cyclonus’ front, voice too chipper for the mess to be an accident, really.

Cyclonus scoffed, wrapping his arms around Tailgate’s frame to pull him down again, “Later. Lie down for a while.”

The happy noise Tailgate made at the demand was confirmation enough that the both of them wouldn’t be going anywhere soon. Cyclonus took note of the weight and bulk of Tailgate in his arms, the sound of a smaller engine purring against him. He mentally documented the atmosphere, the faint pulses of their sparks under plating almost synchronised. And it was perfect.


End file.
